


Arreption

by Webhoard



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Cussing, F/M, Infinity War spoilers, Multiple Timelines, Parallel Universes, i fixed infinity war you're welcome, parallel narratives, time jumps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Webhoard/pseuds/Webhoard
Summary: Your life has always seemed to be a on a collision course with disaster in a world where superheroes are a thing of fiction and men in tights is just a Mel Brooks movie. But when you find yourself in a strange new world that is eerily similar yours, with the exception of mad titans, sorcerers, and supersoldiers, you can’t help but wonder if your whole life has been leading you to this.





	1. Ordeals On Wheels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up in strange new world and you can’t help but feel like that damn gemstone is to blame. Or in other words, your community service takes a very unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be honest with yall I have no fucking idea what is going to happen in this fic, but then again neither does the reader...so here’s a good song for this chapter: [4 Non Blondes: What’s Up](https://open.spotify.com/track/0jWgAnTrNZmOGmqgvHhZEm).
> 
> There’s going to be a lot of skipping back and forth going on here, so I hope that doesn’t get too confusing. Also, this chapter is really more of a set up, so bear with me until things can get going, hopefully by the next chapter.

There were three things you were certain about. One, your head was throbbing and your ears still roared from the explosion of sound and light. Two, you and your clothes were decidedly soaked, so you must have been lying in a puddle of water. And three, there was a smooth weight in the palm of your hand, and that weight was from a small orange gem that you couldn’t for the questionable life of you understand why you were still holding.

With a groan, you finally cracked open your eyes, squinting slightly as the light hit your still sensitive retinas. It must have been sunset wherever you were if the orange glow of the sky were any indication. You sat up, annoyed at the water dripping down your neck, arms, and back, your boots beyond soaked, but that annoyance was soon replaced by something akin to shock and horror.

All around you, stretching to the horizon and most likely beyond, like a mirror, was the smooth glassy surface of water, reflecting the orange hues of the sky above. Where you sat, it wasn’t much more than a few inches deep, neither cool nor warm, but a chill ran down your spine all the same. 

You looked down at the small lobular gem in your hand ruefully. You had no idea what happened or where you were, but you knew it, whatever it was, had something to with your current predicament.

Almost on instinct, you slipped it into the pocket of your jeans, stood, and began walking, heedless of your direction because it all looked the same, no matter which way you turned.

Make the four things you were sure of. You were also completely fucked.

* * *

_Earlier_

As you pulled your beat up [1990 Dodge Caravan](http://zombdrive.com/image-model/6796-1990-dodge-caravan-2.jpg.html) into the turfstone drive you let out a sigh of relief. Sr. Paredes was your last stop of the day, and the only stop you ever looked forward too, and not just because he was at the end of your route. 

The sickly sweet scent of the mountain laurels blooming near the low wooden fence that enclosed the small yard clashed oddly with the persistent plume from your van’s exhaust pipes. Like so many of the houses in the surrounding neighborhood, it was limestone affair, yellowed with time and lichens, its red tin roof rusting in places. The sidewalk was crowded with prickly pears and agaves, and the skeleton of an old cenizo stood twisted and dejected in front of the small porch. 

Taking another indulgent glance around the small yard with no small amount of envy, you opened the sliding door to your back seat and dug out his meal and cold bottle of fruit juice from the cooler before walking up the short sidewalk to his door.

As if he had already been waiting for your knock, Sr. Paredes opened his front door almost immediately, the frigid air from within, laced with the scent of menthol, rushing out as you stepped inside.

“How are you today, Y/N? Keeping out of trouble?” He asked as he wheeled himself inside toward the living room as you followed, a polite smile on your lips.

“Well, I kind of have to, or it’s off to jail with me,” your laugh was almost genuine as you responded. He was well aware of your run-in with the law that had landed you with this volunteering gig with Meals on Wheels. And while he did not judge, he also did not hold back on teasing you. “What about you, old man? Still kickin,’ or kickin’ the bucket?”

He laughed, his voice gritty with age, as he rolled his wheelchair into his adjoining study, “Kickin’ your ass as best as I can all things considered.”

You finally let out a rare full bellied laugh at that. There was a reason he was your favorite.

And it wasn’t that you hated volunteering, it’s just that the element of choice had been removed for you and it, therefore, felt like an obligation...so not really like volunteering after all. But for whatever the reason, in the past few months of dropping off meals with the program, this old geezer had somehow weaseled his way into your heart. 

“You know, I could always swing by in the mornings with breakfast for you,” you called from the kitchen as you set his meal down on the table.

You heard a distant and dismissive “Bah, don’t trouble yourself.”

“I mean it. My neighbor makes menudo every Saturday, and it’s to die for. And I myself make a mean quiche,” you called into the other room, arranging his meal onto a chipped porcelain plate. He was your only stop that got such attentive care.

“Quiche? You mean that weird egg pie?” He asked, rolling back into the kitchen.

“I mean, that’s not how I would have phrased it, but yeah, I guess. I make weird egg pie that tastes like heaven,” you smiled despite yourself.

“You’re a sweet girl, but you don’t need to do all that. Besides, I like my morning Cheerios just fine,” he spoke softly, patting you on the top of your hand.

You scoffed in disagreement as he continued speaking, “But I do have something that might interest you here. I know you like looking at old things,” he looked up at you expectantly, and you nodded encouragingly. “Well, my youngest daughter went down to Matamoros to visit my brother and his family. She’s still down there visiting for the rest of the spring. And she’s mailing me a package of old keepsakes from the family that I thought you might like to look at.” 

You nodded your head, “You know me, the older and creepier, the better.” 

“I knew there was a reason you took a liking to me,” he grinned up at you.

You rolled your eyes playfully, “Well, where is it? Maybe I can poke around while you’re eating?” 

Sr. Paredes looked up at you ruefully as though you’d found the catch, “Only if you’re able to get it from the post office tomorrow. I must have been napping when they tried to deliver it, and now they’re holding it for pickup.” He extended his frail hand up, holding a post office slip in his bony fingers.

You gave him a reassuring smile, “That’s a small price to pay for getting to dig through your stuff.” And you took the slip from him. “Well, I guess I’d better be off. Need to feed myself after all.”

“Yes, yes. Have a good night, and enjoy your egg pie,” he said, a youthful glint peeking out in his ancient and dulling eyes.

“Ahw, c’mon, old man. You know I eat other things, right?”

* * *

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking or how far. All you knew was that you felt like you weren’t moving, like you were walking in place on a treadmill, a very wet treadmill. The dull sound of the water splashing at your feet seemed to not carry as though you were in an anechoic chamber rather than a wide open plain of water. And every now and then, you would slip and stumble on the smooth gray stones at your feet, polished by time and water, that covered the ground beneath the water as you sloshed unproductively though the shallow and endless sea. 

And for all the water, there was not another living thing to be found, not a fish, not a fly, not even a plant. Just you. Another chill ran down your spine, and you shook your head to rid yourself of that thought and that eerie sense of aloneness.

You looked down at your watch futilely again, which was no longer ticking in this strange place and gave you no assistance in determining what time it was or how long you’d been at it. The weird thing was that you could have as easily thought you had been walking for days, months, or years as easily as you could have thought it seconds. 

And still you walked. 

And walked.

And walked.

And maybe it was that the shock of your beyond strange circumstances, but your mind was beginning to compensate for the utter lack of environmental stimulus, churning through feverish thoughts at a feverish pace.

Where the fuck were you? How the fuck did you get here? What the fuck was going on? Were you in a hospital having a crazy coma dream? Were you dead and this was some middle ground between heaven and hell? And what was that orange gem in your pocket? And more importantly, what connection did it have to this current predicament?

And still, like a migratory mammal, fueled more by an inexplicable and instinctual urge than sentient thought, still you walked.

* * *

“No, mom, I’m not done with my community service. I’ve still got like five months left. Ah! Damn it!” Your elbow slammed into the door jamb with a sharp crunch, your phone balanced between your cheek and shoulder, a large canvas bag of groceries in the other.

“What was that about?” Your mother’s irritated voice crackled from your phone.

“I bumped my elbow, no big deal,” you rolled your eyes as you locked your door behind you and set your groceries on the cracked tile counter of your kitchen.

“Well, then there’s no need to cuss about it.” You bit back an impatient groan as she continued, “Anyway. Five months? That long still? Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself.”

That groan could no longer be held back, “What. Just say what you wanna say. I know you want to, so let’s not hold back, shall we?” You knew what was coming. This conversation seemed to come back time and time again, like a nest of cockroaches or herpes. You couldn’t tell which; both seemed apt.

“You have ruined the whole rest of your life, Y/N.” And there it was, the truth, no holding back. Without another thought, you pulled the bottle of red wine out of your grocery bag and began rummaging around for your wine key as your mother continued her lecture. 

“You committed a felony. A felony! And you only barely missed jail time because of a technicality. You have no savings because of all the legal fees, and you’re working in a dead end gig because you got fired from your job at the library. Just what exactly is the rest of your life supposed to look like now?”

And there it was, the question that stumped you as much as it infuriated you. So you did what you did best, you deflected from it while tending to your own hurt and anger, “Oh please. You never cared about that job until I lost it! You thought it was a step down and, I quote, ‘as worthless as the entire public library system itself.’”

“Well, it was better than what you’re doing now. A private investigator? You’ll never make it as a PI, not with a felony on your record,” she spat as you finished screwing the wine key into the cork, pulling it out with a hollow pop.

“As I have said before, my sentence was deferred, so there’s no felony charge on my record yet. And I’ll have you know that I have had several successful clients already. There’s easy money in catching cheating spouses and men skipping out on alimony,” you finished your sentence with a long swig of the ruby wine. 

You could hear her breathing deeply on the other end of the line, no doubt trying to keep from yelling, “That’s not a life, Y/N.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose as you sunk down onto your ratty couch and kicked off your boots, “No, it’s not _your_ life; it’s mine, and unlike you, I’m changing my fate.” You sighed and took another drink, “Look, I don’t want to talk about this. Can I— I’ll call you this weekend, ‘kay?”

There was a pregnant pause and the sound of your mother letting out a sigh of her own, “Fine.”

You hesitated, waiting for further response, but when none came, you huffed, “Okay, then,” still no response, “Bye.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” she replied, disappointment clearly audible through the poor cell reception before the line went silent.

You threw your phone down on the couch with another sigh, pulling your laptop into your lap, settling in for another late night of tracking down an enterprising teenager with a penchant for stolen iPhones. Easy money.

And in the morning, you’d head over to the Post Office to get Sr. Paredes package.

* * *

That was it. You were finally going crazy. Either you were having some kind of conniption and hallucinating or you were actually finally able to measure your progress in the barren water. Barely visible against the seemingly endless twilight horizon you could finally make out the blurry outline of…something. You allowed yourself the wistful hope that it would be dry land, and with it some sign of life besides yourself.

Days. Months. Seconds. Years. It was all the same to you as you walked and walked and the smudge on the horizon grew larger and sharper.

If you squinted, you thought you could almost hear the sounds of water lapping gently at a shore or something in the distance.

If you squinted even harder, you could almost make out the barely defined edges of something standing tall against the flat water, almost see ripples disrupting its mirrored surface. 

Still you got closer and closer.

There was a red roof, yellowing stone walls, and in the corner of the porch under the eaves, the twisted bare bark of a dead cenizo.

What the ever living fuck.

You stopped your sloshingly slow steps, rubbed your eyes, and craned your neck closer to see if you were really seeing what you thought you were seeing. 

Plain as day—even if day seemed like a nebulous concept in this perpetually orange world—you could see Sr. Paredes’ house, the water reaching just below the top step of his porch.

Your legs seemed to move of their own accord now, one foot stumbling in front of the other until you found yourself standing in front of the porch. Warily, fearful that this really was just a hallucination, you placed one foot on the lower step, still submerged under the calm water. Then the next and the next until your foot was hovering and dripping over the dry surface of the porch. And with a deep breath you stepped. 

You were on the porch. Every line of mortar on the wall of the house, every uneven slab of limestone was exactly as you remembered it. How was his house here in the strange world? 

You turned around, looking behind you for the first time, and all the way to the horizon stretched the endless expanse of orange water reflecting that same orange sky. Yet when you turned back, you were staring at the splintering oak door, the faded brass door handle, the cracked and yellow plastic button of the doorbell. 

How was this possible? What? Just What?  


Almost out of muscle memory, you reached out with your index finger and pressed the button, but the bell didn’t ring. Feeling at the end of your rope and beyond social mores, you opened the door just a crack, grateful it wasn’t locked.

“Sr. Paredes?” You called weakly, your voice groggy from disuse. Clearing your throat, you called out more loudly and clearly again, but your voice seemed to not carry in the still air of the house which decidedly lacked that pervasive odor of menthol. 

Timidly, you stepped into the house, feeling less than guilty about the water squelching in your boots and onto the rough wood floors because even though this looked exactly like Sr. Paredes’ house, it was off. This was a good copy, but not a perfect one. There were no sounds of him wheeling into the kitchen, no sound of his scratchy, used voice, no staticky radio playing conjunto hits from at least forty years ago.

If this wasn’t the uncanny valley, you didn’t know what was. 

Your fight or flight response on the verge of being triggered, you began boldly walking from room to room, yelling his name loudly but with no response. When you flicked on his dusty old radio, it was unresponsive. The TV wouldn’t turn on and neither would his lamps, the only light coming from outside through the ratty lace curtains on his windows. 

But before any real panic could set in, the dim orange light filtering through the curtains began to fade and flicker as though a cloud had drifted in front of this world’s non-existent sun. Running to the nearest window, you ripped the curtains aside, peering out at the sight the met your eyes.

From the sky, for as far as you could see, was falling snow, but snow was white and this was a dark, ashy gray.

And then everything went black and blank.

* * *

There were three things you were certain about. One, your head and mind felt heavy and cottony, like you were waking up from a long, disorienting nap on a lazy afternoon. Two, you and your clothes were decidedly dry; in fact, they were quite comfortably nestled in what felt like a soft bed. And three, there was no gem in your hand, nor a gem in your pocket, nor pockets in your clothes, which had been replaced by a thing cotton robe.

With a groan, you finally cracked open your eyes, squinting slightly as the bright fluorescent light hit your still sensitive retinas. There was no water, no orange sky, no mirage like house in the distance, no ashy snow falling from the sky. Instead there was the steady _beep. beep. beep._ of a heart rate monitor and the white noise of electronic devices around you.

Perhaps you were in a hospital? There certainly was an IV in your arm, slowly dispensing what you assumed to be a saline solution. Perhaps you really had been in a coma dream or some other such nonsense?

As you slowly and carefully sat up in the narrow bed, a lilting female voice greeted you.

“Ah, you’re awake, Ms. Y/LN. I shall tell Mr. Stark right away. I would advise that you not get out of your bed until a doctor clears you.”

You looked around for the Irish sounding woman, but you were alone in the sterile white room. “Who said that?”

“I did, and you can call me Friday.” 

You looked up and saw a small embedded speaker in the ceiling, but there were no cameras that you could see. Who was Friday and how did she know that you had awoken?

Too tired to ask further and too jaded from your time in the orange world to care about being confused, you sank back into your bed. Friday? Mr. Stark? Who cared? As long as your hospital bills weren’t too high, you were just happy that it was all over, that it had all just been a dream.

But then two men with almost matching goatees stepped into your room, one wearing a long red cape, and you couldn’t help the sudden sensation of déjà vu when you looked at his pointed face peering out over his high collars. 

And yet another chill ran down your spine when you looked at his feet, which were levitating a few inches from the ground.

That was decidedly not normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HMMM....WHAT COULD THE FALLING ASH HAVE BEEN?!? Lol, yall know. Like I said, I have no idea what I am doing, so like you, I am eager to see what happens next too. And yes that ‘egg pie’ line was inspired by Telenovela. Oh dear. Thanks for reading!!
> 
> And just to clarify, there will be three parallel narratives: Reader in her home universe, Reader in the orange world (which some of yall have probably figured out where that is), and Reader in Marvel universe.


	2. The Wizard of Odd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself a stranger in a strange land, talking to a strange man...whose name is Strange, and the last thing you remember doesn’t seem to be helping you make sense of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this got out of hand. Sorry?

There are few things quite as soul sucking and patience testing as waiting in line at the Post Office. 

You watched with a growing grimace as the small boy in front of you coyly picked his nose and wiped his gray booger on the side of his distracted mother’s purse. It wouldn’t have been nearly as intimidating if he hadn’t been committing the act while staring at you unblinkingly the whole time. 

You finally tore your gaze away from the gruesome sight in favor of staring blankly at the blank faced man behind the counter, his half-moon reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose and smudged by more than a few fingerprints. He moved with a deliberate slowness as he reached for the scanner and zapped the large barcode on the side of a box. 

The middle aged woman in the booth next to him was busy explaining for the third time to the patchouli scented white guy with dreadlocks, that no, he could not get a P.O. box without disclosing his home address, and that no, this was not a government conspiracy to track and surveil citizens. You marveled at her even tone and expletive free speech. She had the patience of a saint to be sure.

And then you made the mistake of looking back down at the booger boy again. Jesus H. Christ. This package of Mexican artifacts and family heirlooms had better be worth it, or there would be no end to the amount of hell you were going to give Sr. Paredes when you got back.

After nearly fifteen more minutes of staring into space, staring at the boy in front of you, and staring at the newsfeed on your phone, you finally walked up to the counter and proudly held out the packing slip and a signed release form from Sr. Paredes granting you permission to pick it up in his stead. 

The harried woman, Marlene according to her name tag, who had only just finished with paranoid hippie gave you a desperate look. 

“You’ll need to pull your vehicle around to the loading dock,” she sighed, turning toward her computer to type in the confirmation number, adding under her breath, “Hope you’ve got a flatbed truck, little lady.”

This was going to be good, you thought to yourself with equal parts sarcastic amusement and aggravation.

And she wasn’t kidding. Ten minutes later, you found yourself staring down one of the warehouse workers, Craig, who was giving you the same look that Marlene had. There on the cement ledge of the loading dock was a large wooden crate, like the kinds you saw in movies, packed with sawdust and contraband machine guns. It had to be at least six feet long by two or three feet squared. You were just grateful that you had long ago rid your van of the rear bench seat, which would provide crucial room for the coffin sized box. 

Miraculously, you and Craig managed to heave the cumbersome crate into the back of your van, jerry-rigging the trunk half closed over the protruding end of the box with a haphazard mesh of bungee cords and your old and peeling jumper cables, which he told you, in no uncertain terms, to never ever use unless you wanted to die in the process. Noted. 

You silently agreed with yourself to take this drive slow, and you silently began begging with fates that the bungee cords and jumper cables would hold and that you would have enough strength to drag, shove, and kick this impossibly heavy crate into Sr. Paredes’ house unassisted.

Yeah, you were fucked.

* * *

“Miss Y/N, your heartrate is elevating and your blood pressure is beginning to spike,” that disembodied Irish voice sounded again.

Without even thinking about how strange it was, you shouted out to the air, “The hell you say! There’s a floating man in my doorway!”

“Get down from there, Strange,” the other goateed man grumbled, “Can’t you pretend for one minute your cape is normal, well as normal as a cape can be.”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. Tell me,” the caped man bit back, slowly floating to the floor while you watch in abject and speechless shock, “How many galas and fundraising dinners have you flown to in your suit?”

The other man rolled his eyes, planted his feet, and placed his hands on his hips, “Okay, here we go. Let me have it, Merlin.”

You could see the caped man draw in a breath to spit out a retort of some kind, but your mind and mouth had finally started working again. “What the fuck is happening? Who are you? Where am I? What in god’s name is going on?”

The two men jerked their heads toward you in shock, as if they had forgotten you were sitting in the hospital bed right in front of them.

“I’ve said you may call me Friday,” the disembodied voice cut in, sounding almost offended, “The man in the cape is Dr. Stephen Strange, and the other is my boss, Mr. Tony Stark.” 

The man without the cape, Tony Stark, smiled smugly and looked to you, “There that should clear things up some, though I must say, I’m a little offended that you don’t recognize me what with our brief history, not to mention my philanthropy and world saving and Ben and Jerry’s flavor.”

“Not this again,” muttered the strange caped man, whose actual name was Strange.

But you were dumbfounded. Were you supposed to know who this Tony Stark was? What brief history? You searched through your memories for any kind of name recognition but came up blank, so you just shrugged your shoulders and replied, “Uh, yeah, sorry, but I don’t know who you are or why I should.”

Stark wore a look of consternation that you might have sworn was mixed with concern as he said, “I’m Iron Man, you know, richest and smartest member of the Avengers.”

You simply shrugged your shoulders. Maybe he was a pro wrestler, what with a name like Iron Man. He certainly could have been secretly ripped under his cat-in-a-teacup t-shirt-blazer combo.

As Stark scoffed in response, Dr. Strange’s brows furrowed as he clearly lived up to his title, approaching you with calculated gaze of a medical man, “Hmm, there were no clinical signs of any brain damage on the monitors, but I suppose memory loss could be a side effect.” He pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket and shined it into your eyes, one at a time, telling you to focus on his finger while moving the beam across your pupils.

“Side effects of what?” Truthfully, you had about a million questions running through your head at the moment, but why bother? This at least seemed like a manageable question.

“You have been in a light coma for a few weeks,” Strange replied, somehow with a straight face.

What? Million questions and general confusion aside, you couldn’t let that one go, “Light coma? Okay, now I’m not a doctor or anything, but even I know that’s bullshit.”

“Well,” Strange began, scratching lightly at his goatee while Stark came to stand alongside your bed next to him, “It wasn’t so much a coma as it was a mystical sleep.”

Your jaw dropped at that. “Uhhh, say what now? Are you fucking serious? Okay, Dumbledore, calm the ever living fuck down,” you said without even the slightest hint of irony, your voice inching higher and higher as internal panic began to set in.

“Are you actually saying you do not believe in the existence of the mystical arts?” Strange asked, cocking an incredulous brow at you. “Did you or did you not just see me levitating off the ground?”

Meanwhile, Stark stood still to the side, arms crossed a look of amusement tinged with anxiety on his face. You were sure he could have just as easily been sitting down with a bag of pretzels watching a pair of street performers.

You shook your head. This jackoff could just be some whitebread David Blaine, for all you knew, and the levitating nothing more than an illusion. “Am I being punk’d? Where’s Ashton? And more importantly, where’s the exit because I’m done with this fucking freak show.” You pushed aside your covers and, without thinking about the consequences, ripped the IV out of your arm.

The pain was sharp, enduring, and the icing on the proverbial shit-cake. There was only a slight quiver in your voice, a few notes higher than normal and strained, “Oh fuck! Oh fucking shit, I’m bleeding.”

It was decidedly an understatement. 

A generous, but non-life threatening, stream of blood began running freely down your arm from the now open vein, soaking into the cotton of your hospital gown and sheets as you watched in unmoving shock, John Mulaney’s voice ringing in your head: _well, this might as well happen_.

Dr. Strange surged forward, gauze pads in hand, pressing his fingers firmly to the small yet not so small, puncture.

“Okay, clearly you are delirious and apparently suffering from some form of memory loss. Perhaps there is some sort of head injury. Answer me this: what is your name?”

You looked at him flatly as he continued to apply gentle pressure to your arm and responded with your name.

“Good,” he congratulated you with the air of a jaded kindergarten teacher. “Now what is today’s date?”

“March 23rd.” You hesitated before adding, “2018.”

Strange’s pinched face pinched impossibly tighter as Stark let out a huff of air, looking troubled. 

“It’s July 30th,” Strange said, voice oddly low, adding as you did, “2018.”

That came as quite a blow, but it could have been much, much worse, right? You’d only lost a few months in your coma…except he’d said you’d only been in a coma a few weeks…

“And who is the current president of the United States?”

He had to be fucking kidding, right? But this was a standard question in head trauma cases, right? You groaned from a different kind of agony than the still pulsing pain in your arm. “Please don’t make me say his name.” 

Strange just looked at you with quizzical impatience, “You don’t remember or you refuse?”

“Ughh,” you growled out, “Fine, the orange ogre. Please don’t make me say it.”

“I need to assess your mental condition, and your answer will confirm or deny what I already suspect. Who is the president?”

“Fine! Donald fucking Trump. There, you happy? I fucking said it,” you were wining as much from the pain in your arm as from the syllables you spat out.

Strange and Stark looked askance at you, until the apparent pressure became too much for Stark.

“Trump? The real estate asshole who thought he could buy my tower?” He spat out with prideful indignation, “Think again, it was the asshole whose defense department tried to nuke me.”

You didn’t have the opportunity to ask what in the hell Stark was talking about before Strange looked at you oddly and asked, “What is the last thing you remember? Before waking up here, that is?”

There was something in his tone that sounded tense, almost and wary that made you ignore Stark’s comment long enough to take a moment to reflect.

Your voice was hesitant as you spoke, “I remember Sr. Paredes’ house. Were in his study looking through a crate of antiques and artifacts from his family’s home in Matamoros. We had been, uhm,” you paused, searching for an acceptable word for what you’d both been actually doing, “cataloguing them for a couple weeks in fact. Umm, I think I remember hearing a bunch loud sounds and bright lights, don’t remember what caused them. Then, just the color orange and,” you shook your head. The spotty and disjointed memories were all so peculiar, so broken and incomplete, “just the sensation of water.”

Had you not been looking pensively up at the ceiling, your eyes glazing as your focus shifted to your mind’s eye, searching for the now elusive memories of that day that felt like yesterday, you might have seen the look of shock that twisted Strange’s face and the crestfallen expression that clouded Stark’s. 

But by the time you looked back over to them, they had schooled their faces back into matching expressions of blank interest.

* * *

The sweet scent of the laurels had to be mocking you as the blazing March sun beat down on your back as you took turns dragging and pushing the heavy wooden crate up the uneven pavers of Sr. Paredes’ driveway. Sweat was beginning to run down the side of your face and neck in small rivulets as the pervasive underboob sweat stained your heather gray shirt, which in retrospect had been a poor choice for the day. But then again, how were you to have known that Sr. Paredes would be getting a veritable lead-lined coffin in the mail?

Before you had even gotten close to the front porch, Sr. Paredes’ door creaked open and the scent of menthol wafted across the small yard.

As he wheeled out onto the porch to watch your slow and agonizing progress, he wore an amused smile at your efforts.

“Anything I can do to help you, bonita?” He practically laughed out, smug old man.

“Nah, you just sit there and look pretty,” you grunted out as you redoubled your efforts at pulling the edge of the crate up the first step, knowing that the plywood ramp off to the side, which Sr. Paredes used for his wheelchair would likely get damaged under the the weight and uneven pushing and pulling of the box.

“It’s not exactly something I have to work at,” he began, and you knew this was about to turn into a story of his youth. “Ah, you should have seen me as young man. I’d go swimming in the gulf every day, and the women! The women of Matamoros! The most beautiful women in the world, present company excluded of course.”

You snorted and rolled your eyes visibly at him.

“Well, I had those women, what is the saying? Wrapped around my little finger, and I used to go out with a different lady each night sometimes, you know,” he held out his pinky finger, smiling wistfully.

You smirked, looking him in the eye, “Well, the Roaring 20s were a hell of a decade, old man.”

He frowned and scoffed at you, “You know damn well I was a young man in the 60s and what a time to live. And don’t get me started on the weed back then. Nothing like the garbage they hock in back alleys today.”

You took a moment to regard Sr. Paredes, taking one of the blue Hall’s lozenges he held out for you. It wasn’t often that he waxed poetic about this particular aspect of his younger days, and you’d be damned if you let a sarcastic quip derail him from that train of thought. So you took this opportunity to catch your breath and get to know this man who’d wormed his way into your heart just a little better.

“You’ve never really told me about all that,” you muttered before popping the sharply menthol lozenge in your mouth. It was as much an invitation for him to keep speaking as it was an out.

“Well, I never wanted to let you hear such things, but I guess you are a little law breaker after all, so why not, but let’s get this little box inside first, eh?”

You glared at him, “Little box, my ass.” 

Fifteen minutes later, you had finally managed to get the crate into Sr. Paredes’ study, using broken down cardboard boxes to slide the jagged wood across his already damaged floors. And, now, at 11:34 in the morning, you were sitting on his couch, sweat cooling on your skin under the oscillating fan that had seen better days, drinking an ice-cold Modelo, not caring about the early hour. You’d earned it.

“I was a pilot for the Cartel del Golfo,” he began as you straightened up in interest, “I must have flown at least a hundred thousand pounds of weed across the border in my nearly ten years with the cartel.” He got a distant look in his eyes as he told you story after story of flying planes low, under the ground radar in the dead of night, usually on new moons. 

He told you about the parties and the life he had once lived that couldn’t have been more different from the modest life he was now near the end of. The part that had piqued your interest the most, however, was his brief mentions of smuggling various Mexican and Central American antiquities into and out of the U.S. as they traded hands with private collectors, dirty museum curators, and weird new-age cults alike.

“What made you get out of it? I mean, it sounds like a hell of a way to live,” you asked, now working on your second beer as you and he ate lunch, two steaming bowls of menudo courtesy of your sweet neighbor who’d made it specially for you that morning.

His already wistful eyes went distant, “A woman. What else?”

You smirked, “You old romantic.”

He shrugged his shoulders, smiling, neither confirming nor denying the accusation, “She was a Professor of Mexican American studies at UT Rio Grande, just across the border. Of course, you know the border now isn’t what it used to be like.”

You nodded vaguely as he continued, “Used to be, I could go across to Brownsville for a night at the drive-in, then head back home to Matamoros just in time to take a plane of marijuana up to Dallas. And that’s exactly how I met her, at a drive in.” If his eyes had been distant before in all his reminiscing, they were completely absent now as he spoke, “She was getting honey roasted peanuts for her and her friends when I first saw her, and I thought my heart would beat right out of my chest. Five months later, she was walking down the aisle toward me and a month after that she was with child. Couldn’t keep living the life of drug smuggler with a new wife and a baby on the way. So I turned in my keys and embraced early retirement.”

You shook your head slightly, “Think you might have glossed over a few details there. The cartel let you quit? Just like that? And the woman, that was Marisol, wasn’t it?”

His eyes grew misty at the mention of his deceased wife’s name, “My Marisol. Yes.” He trailed off before coming back to the present, “And of course it was never as easy as saying ‘I quit,’ but I had made it my goal to never make waves with anyone in the cartel. So there were no enemies who wished ill of me, and no one who really objected to my leaving. And once I got my green card, I never looked back, well not really.”

His eyes flashed almost imperceptibly to his study’s doors, and prickle of suspicion ran down the back of your neck.

* * *

What proceeded after you described your last memory before waking up could have put a Samuel Beckett play to shame as miscommunications bled into misinterpretations, and half the time, you weren’t listening to what Stark or Strange said and neither did they listen to you.

After nearly half an hour of pulling teeth and circling back to the same few points, Strange, with the input and assistance of Stark, had convinced you of one fact, bolstered by innumerable pieces of evidence ranging from photographs to webpages to live news broadcasts: you weren’t in Kansas anymore. Not that you had been in Kansas to begin with and not that Kansas didn’t exist here, it was just that the Kansas here was not the Kansas you knew.

You were in a world that was almost identical to your own with one glaring exception that, like a ball of snow rolling down a mountainside, had escalated and grown through time. In this world there had been Hydra, an occult Nazi offshoot, which had spawned its very own nemesis: the Howling Commandoes, a rag-tag band of soldiers led by one Captain America, a genetically enhanced super soldier. And from that point on the snowball grew and grew as super soldiers led the way for super heroes and spies. In your version of history, the Nazis were Nazis and there were no super soldiers to fight them, just regular soldiers with regular abilities and regular rates of mortality. This new land you found yourself in was…

“A parallel universe? I mean, I just can’t, you know?” You rambled incoherently for the seventh time in as many minutes.

“Believe me, I know. But there’s no other explanation,” Strange repeated himself, again, rubbing at his eyes. “Do I need to create another magic shield to send the point home? Transport you to top of Everest with my sling ring again?”

“No. I don’t know,” you rambled, still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that parallel universes existed and that you of all people were in one. “I just— How did you come to that conclusion so quickly? That I’m from a parallel universe and not just crazy or an amnesiac or both? You still haven’t explained that to me.”

Stark and Strange, both of whom seemed to be the kind of men who never had nothing to say, looked at you dumbfounded before looking at each other warily. 

Stark was the first to speak this time, “Let’s just say that with everything that’s happened in the last couple months, well, years for that matter, it really wasn’t much of an intuitive leap for us.” Even he sounded unconvinced by his answer, but he added anyway, “Just last month half of the universe was destroyed by a Titan, basically an alien from outer space. But don’t worry,” he added in a hurry at seeing the alarm on your face, “We got it all put back together again. Almost good as new.”

Your mind was spinning; you knew there was something fishy about how easily they had both come to the conclusion that you were from a parallel universe, but that question was steamrolled by about a million other questions, one of which you were able to pin down with an oddly sickening chill.

“Does that mean there’s another version of me here?” You asked suddenly with a knot in your stomach.

“Friday?” Stark called to the air, “What information do we have on Y/N Y/LN in this universe? Anything?”

“I can find no records of Y/N Y/LN using her driver’s license or of any persons matching her biometric data, boss.” You were really starting to hate that voice as that knot in your stomach twisted with a lurch.

“So, parallel, but only to a certain point then?” You asked when you were finally able to form a coherent sentence.

“So it would seem,” Strange muttered, looking away pensively. 

“So, yall have wizards who can transport me to the top of Mt. Everest and a female HAL 9000 who knows everything about everything. Any clue how to get me back to my universe?” You asked, fearful that you already knew the answer.

Strange looked at you cautiously, “I’ll be honest, we don’t know yet. ‘Yet’ being the key word. If anyone can get you back, it’s us.” He looked over at Stark skeptically, walking away to look out the window.

“Well, look. There’s no reason to keep you cooped up in this hospital bed any longer. Your arm’s done bleeding everywhere, and you could probably do with a change of scenery,” Stark interrupted, clearly eager to break the now growing tension. “You may have amnesia, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get out of here and stretch your legs. You do remember what legs are right?”

You looked at him with your best poker face. In truth, you really were trying to get a read on him and his apparent flippancy. “Those are the things you hear with right?”

“Hilarious,” he replied flatly, “Well, I’ve made arrangements here on the compound. Something tells me you’ll find the accommodations to be more than comfortable.”

“Compound?” You asked with concern. What was this, some weird cult? They did have a fucking wizard after all.

“Not like that. This isn’t Jonestown or anything. It’s, well, it’s not a military base, but it’s pretty close. It’s the newish home of the Avengers, who have recently reassembled. And don’t worry, you’ll get to meet everyone. I mean, you’ll be sharing living spaces with them after all.”

“Like roommates or something?” You asked, still not entirely sure what these ‘accommodations’ would entail.

“Or something,” Stark just smirked, “C’mon, Merlin, let’s give her some privacy. There’s a few changes of clothes over there.” He pointed to a stack of neatly folded clothes on a side table. “Friday, as you heard, took your biometric data, so it should all fit just fine.”

“Oh, um,” you looked at him awkwardly, “How much do I owe you?” 

He waved you off, “What part of rich philanthropist didn’t you get? Meet you outside in a few.”

And with that, they left. Finally alone with your thoughts, you could feel the blood pumping in your ears, feel the tears begin stinging your eyes. You were lost. Worse than lost, you were utterly and unfathomably alone. Sure, this Stark character seemed like a nice guy, maybe even someone you could have been friends with in another life, but he may as well have been a Vulcan for all you cared. He was of a different universe, a universe you found yourself unwillingly stranded in. 

Everyone you’d ever known was lost to you and you to them. Sr. Paredes, the only person you’d ever really cared about by choice, might as well have been a million miles away. Your mother, whom you could barely stand, was utterly gone from you, but what you wouldn’t give to see her right now. Your few friends and neighbors were gone. And technically speaking, so far as any government entities might be concerned, you didn’t even exist. You had never been born here, you had no public record, no social security number, no identity; hell, maybe your mother didn’t even exist here. 

If ever there had been a moment that you related to the Robinson family, it was now. You even had a sentient robot of sorts that you knew you needed, even if she had been the bearer of most of your bad news.

“Miss Y/N, there are tissues on the table to your left.” You could almost swear that Friday’s voice had gotten softer somehow, tender even. How had she known that you’d started to cry a little?

“Thanks, Friday,” you sniffed, letting only a few tears fall. “Are there others like you, Friday? Other AIs?”

“Mr. Stark has developed prototypes, and Vision used to be an AI, but I’m the only one,” she almost sounded sad, or maybe you were just projecting.

“Do you ever get lonely?” You asked, not quite sure why you were seeking comfort from a computer.

“I’m a programmed AI. I am not capable of human emotions like loneliness.” The plaintive tone in her voice seemed to contradict the coldness of her words.

“Well, for what it’s worth, one isolated woman to another, you’ve got a friend in me,” you muttered, feeling silly even as you spoke.

“Thank you, Miss Y/N,” she replied softly.

* * *

The crate had lived up your expectations and then some. Feeling like Indiana Jones, you began pulling artifacts, wrapped in bubble wrap and newspaper from the bed of sawdust within the wooden box. 

It took several hours to unload the crate, but Sr. Paredes’ study now resembled more a repository for a museum than a personal study as artifacts and antiquities littered every horizontal surface. Old leather bound tomes, relics of the Christian missionaries from Spain, sat next to [ceramic bowls](https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/1978.412.159/) depicting Mayan gods. Your _second_ favorite artifact was an [ocarina](https://artgallery.yale.edu/collections/objects/142188) in the shape of a kinkajou. 

There were also numerous personal items, boxes of pictures of the Paredes family, some old and yellowing, others taken maybe last week. But most of the contents of the crate looked more like a museum stash than ‘family heirlooms’ as he had explained to you the day before.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that this is what you meant by you _mostly_ looking moving on from your smuggling days,” you joked, gingerly unwrapping a [terra cotta figurine](https://anthro.amnh.org/anthropology/databases/common/image_dup.cfm?database=MIXDATA&catno=30%2E2%2F%207782).

“Ah, that one is from Costa Rica, anywhere from 100 to 1000, common era,” he not so deftly evaded your question. “My Marisol taught me many things in her lifetime,” he added as you arched your brow quizzically.

You didn’t budge.

“Let’s just say this was a retirement fund that I’m now converting into a college fund for my grandchildren. Now do you want to help me sell this stuff off shady rich white men or do I need to remind you that you’ve proven yourself to also be beneath the law.”

You finally laughed at that, reaching down to clap him gently on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, old man. Just giving you grief. And as long as you let me actually peek into that little box over there, then yes, I’ll help you however I can.”

“Now listen here, Pandora, do not open that box. You hear me?” His voice was stern, and had you been a more sensitive type of person, you might have felt affronted or even chastened by the sharpness of his tone. But you weren’t, so you just shrugged him off as your eyes once again drifted to the unassuming [wooden box](https://www.periodoakantiques.co.uk/antique-chests-coffers/a-rare-16th-century-scottish-oak-chalice-box-circa-1550-8-stockno-1034/), no bigger than a shoebox.

You didn’t know why, but it pulled you in like a moth to a flame. What could it be housing that was so bad that you couldn’t even look at it? You shook your head slightly and rolled your shoulders. 

“I hear you, loud and clear,” you responded, voice just a little higher than normal. “Well, listen, I need to go. There’s a cheating wife who’s got a little afternoon delight planned for while her husband is on a business trip to Houston, and then I’ll need to make my rounds for Meals on Wheels. You good till this evening?”

He waved you off impatiently, “I’ve lived on my own long enough that I’ll not miss you for one afternoon, now go on and get out of here.” You could hear the slightest hint of tenderness in his voice despite his exasperation.

* * *

There was a good chance you were going to get whiplash or some other cervical injury from twisting your head every which way. The ‘compound’ as Stark had called it was breathtaking as he led you on the short path toward the residences. Strange had apparently gone ahead of you both to finish some business with the Avengers before heading back to his ‘sanctum,’ which was honestly so much to unpack that you didn’t even bother asking for elaboration.

Across the compound, nature and infrastructure were seamlessly integrated in a way that spoke of care for not only the environment but also of a keen sense of aesthetics. Maybe this Stark guy, despite his blasé manner, had layers; he had after all helped to design it apparently. The medical building where you’d been previously housed overlooked a lush deciduous forest typical of upstate New York, and directly across from it stood an impressive feat of design.

“Home, sweet home,” Stark called, his arms gesturing widely at the building. “We put the living quarters next to the medical building for reasons that will become evident to you in no time at all.” 

“You live there? It doesn’t look like a house or even a weird-ass mansion,” you muttered, eyeing it skeptically, aware that you were being less than grateful in your anxiety.

“Think of more like a one hundred percent green energy apartment building that houses the world’s heroes,” he smiled coolly. 

You shrugged your shoulders. Well, this might as well happen, you repeated to yourself for the umpteenth time that day.

Once you found yourself standing in the cavernous entry of the building, Stark stopped you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Look, I know all of this is a lot to process, but for what it’s worth, I wasn’t kidding about half the universe being destroyed last month. We were able to bring everyone back who had been lost, but there was a lot of collateral damage that couldn’t be undone.”

You didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was talking about, beyond the few vague facts he’d given you, but you nodded along with him as he continued, “So you’re going through some shit, and we’re getting over some shit, so you’re just— don’t feel like you’re alone in all this, ‘kay? The Avengers are a family, and we’re taking you in, which makes you family too.”

You nodded your head but couldn’t help but point out the obvious, “None of you even know me.”

You thought you could see a misty, distant expression in his eyes, but it was gone before you could pin it down. “Well, that just means we get to look forward to knowing you.”

Too tired and too everything to argue the point, you nodded dully as he led into the building.

“First stop is the training gym. That’s where we’ll probably find most everyone.”

You hummed vaguely in reply as you continued to look up at the building. 

Tony, as he had forced you to begin calling him, had been right about the gym. As soon as you entered you were greeted by a sight that nearly left you breathless as you tried to keep from ogling the perfect human specimens before you. 

They were paired off, three men and a red headed woman. 

“Hey guys, come over and meet Y/N,” Tony called, his voice oddly tense.

The first man to come over and reach out his hand wasn’t really much of a man at all. He couldn’t have been a day over seventeen.

“Hi, I’m Peter, A.K.A. Spider-man,” he said, enthusiastically shaking your hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you!”

“Really? From whom? I just got here,” you asked, amused by his fervor, choosing to focus on that question than the fact that he’d just introduced himself as a ‘spider-man.’

“Oh, uh, Dr. Strange. He said you were doing better and that you ripped an IV out of your arm!” His eyes lit up with the kind of levity that only a kid could really have when talking about blood and injuries.

“Yeah, not one of my better life choices,” you said, the irony of that statement going right over their heads. If only they knew the kinds of life choices you’d made before the IV.

The woman did not reach forward to shake your hand, but rather gave you an appraising look that was friendly nonetheless, “I’m Natasha Romanoff, but everyone calls me Nat.”

“Nat, got it. Any cool title for you?” You asked only half joking.

She smirked, “The Black Widow, but that’s just for use in missions and when newspapers want to add flair to their headlines.”

You nodded, “I’m noticing a decided spider theme here.”

“Well, it ends with them,” said a large blond man who looked like a Abercrombie model crossed with an Olympic athlete. “Steve Rogers.” He held his hand out and shook your hand so hard you were sure the IV wound would start bleeding again.

“Oh, yeah,” you replied, remembering your conversations with Tony and Strange from earlier. “Captain America, right?” 

“Just Steve.” He flashed you a smile that left you feeling a touch dazed. How were all these people so damned attractive?

Before you could make an ass of yourself or ogle Steve any longer, Tony gestured to the last man in the room.

“And this rascal here is Sam Wilson, codename The Falcon.”

Sam reach forward and gently shook your hand, giving you a subdued smile. “It’s great to meet you, Y/N. Wish it were under different circumstances.”

You must have not been the only one who noticed his restrained demeanor as Steve clapped him roughly on the shoulder in what he no doubt thought was a gentle gesture.

“I’m sure Tony’s filled you in a little. We’ve all been through a lot here in, uhm, this universe. Sam and Peter were both among those who were taken from existence when Thanos attacked,” Steve spoke lowly, his eyes crinkling in a warm and reassuring smile despite the heaviness of his words.

You were placated enough to not push it. You had no idea what half the universe being destroyed entailed, and Sam must have taken it harder than Peter who seemed to have bounced back with youthful vigor. If Sam was having a hard time, you weren’t going to call him on it. So you just gave what you hoped was a soft but not patronizing smile. 

After the gym, you met Clint eating an early lunch in the community kitchen, who could luckily read lips with ease, and Rhodey, whom you could tell was fast friends with Tony.

“That’s most everyone. Wanda and Vision are taking a sabbatical of sorts after everything that happened. It was especially bad for them. And then there’s Bucky. I’m sure he’s hiding around here somewhere,” Tony gestured vaguely at the several halls that branched off from the main living area.

“But, I’m sure that’s enough introductions, for now anyway,” he smiled at you as he led you down one hall, stopping in front of a door, two down on the right. “Works just like a regular door. Anyone can get in if it’s unlocked, and only you can get in if it’s not unlocked. The only difference is you can lock out particular people. For instance, I live in a slightly removed residence with my partner, Pepper. I’ve specifically instructed Friday to never let Natasha into my quarters. She’s a hell of a spy, you know, and the last thing I need is her learning even more of my secrets.”

You looked at him blankly as he led you inside, “So I just ask Friday to lock it or lock it for certain people?”

Tony just smirked knowingly, “You can pretty much ask Friday for anything and everything. See?” He pointed demonstratively to the ceiling, “Friday, put in an order for those giant cinnamon rolls from Lucy’s Café.”

“Extra frosting as usual?” She responded liltingly.

“You know me so well,” Tony smiled to the ceiling and then to you. “See? Anything. ‘Course it helps that I’ve got the entire menu for Lucy’s memorized already—it’s a little café in the town—but you can always ask Friday to send it to your tablet.” He picked up a rather high-tech looking tablet from the entryway table. “Think of Friday as Google, Yelp, and the basically every other site on the internet put together but with the intelligence of a, well, of a computer. Anything, everything.”

He set the tablet down and let you take in your quarters. It was like a separate apartment all for yourself. There was a modestly sized kitchen, living room and a short hall led you to what looked like a spacious bedroom. The décor was minimal and had the feel of an upscale hotel: everything a little too sterile, not quite lived in, and with no sense of personality whatsoever. 

“You can have the kitchen here or the community one stocked with whatever you want. Most meals seem to be eaten out in the big kitchen, but these allow you to get away from others if you need.”

You paused in your observations. Something about the way he talked about your quarters felt too permanent. “But I mean, this is just a temporary thing, you know? Until you can send me back to my universe, right?” 

Tony to his credit put up confident front, but he faltered ever so slightly, “Of course, but even if it’s just temporary, there’s no need to not make yourself at home.”

He had a point there, so you nodded and gave him a forced but grateful smile, “Well, I don’t know what to say, except thank you. I don’t know what I’ve done to get such kindness, but thank you all the same.”

Tony waved it off, “It’s nothing. Just glad we can help. Anyway, I’ll leave you alone for now. Settle in and take the day to heal and relax. Strange is already researching your problem, but we can go at it full force tomorrow after some rest. Nat said she’s cooking tonight, so if you want to join the others, head out to the main kitchen around seven.”

“And you?” He, besides Strange who was now gone to who knows where, was really the only person here you’d spent any amount of time with, and you’d only been here a few hours.

“I’ll be having a nice domestic meal with Pepper tonight. Gotta enjoy the small things, you know?” He must have sensed your anxiety as he placed a careful hand on your shoulder, “Don’t worry. This is all gonna work out, and even though Steve can be a bit pious and Nat is well Nat, they’re good people. They’ll make you quite welcome.”

You shrugged your shoulders, embarrassed that you were coming off as needy, “I’m good. Just processing everything.”

“Aren’t we all,” he muttered ruefully before leaving you to the privacy of your quarters.

Just as in the hospital room in the medical building, there was something about the sudden freedom of solitude that made your self-control utterly useless. This time you let far more than a few tears escape as the crushing weight of loneliness and loss finally began to sink-in in a much more meaningful way. 

But even through the fear and sense of helplessness regarding your situation, there was one detail that kept nagging at you. Something about the way everyone acted around you was off. Sure, they’d had half their world destroyed and then somehow put back together again. Sure, you were from another universe, one that while alien-free did have its own discolored monster fucking things up. But neither of those things really explained the odd vibe you were getting from everyone, which it had been strongest with Sam. You didn’t know what it was, something in the look in their eyes or the tenor of their voices. Something was off, but you couldn’t put your finger on it.

After a few solid minutes of crying you managed to pull yourself together again, exploring your temporary quarters in as much of an attempt to distract yourself as to become acquainted with the place you’d be calling home for the foreseeable future.

The cupboards were equipped with basic cups, plates, and serve ware. The pantry was stocked with basic non-perishable staples, and the fridge had a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables. Spotting a bottle of wine in the pantry, you dug around the drawers until you found a wine key and poured yourself an overly large glass of the ruby liquid into a tumbler, too lazy and too stressed to looks for the stemware.

And even though this never-used couch didn’t sink in a third of the way down like yours did, it was soft and plush and welcoming as you all but collapsed backward onto it, mind oddly blank for a few fleeting seconds.

You sat there sipping at your wine for several hours, mind vacillating between fevered thoughts and blank numbness. Even though you knew this was real, there was still that instinct of your rational mind to fight against the obvious and the incontrovertible. How could there actually be parallel universes? How could you have traveled between them? What had you done to make this happen? You were an ex-librarian P.I. with a criminal record, not a protagonist in a shitty sci-fi movie. Why you? Why this? Just why?

You jumped from your position on the couch, head swimming slightly at the change in altitude. You couldn’t sit in this room any longer. You needed to move, to breath fresh air. 

“Friday? Any good walking paths around here?” You called into the empty apartment.

“I’m uploading a map to your phone as we speak.”

“My pho…?” Your eyes landed on slick phone on the entry table, similar in style to your tablet. On it was a map of the compound and a flashing blue dot that was you.

Without thinking any further you strode to door with a determined step and flung the door wide. No sooner had you stepped over the threshold than you collided with something firm yet soft as a pair of arms reached out to catch your rebounding body.

A sense of déjà vu swept over you as you peered up into the face of your would-be savior. Deep blue eyes were nearly hidden behind a sweep of long brown hair that mingled with a cropped beard. It was a very handsome face.

You must have been staring because the man cleared his throat uncomfortably and let go of you, taking a step back.

“You must be Bucky?” You asked, your voice cracking embarrassingly on his name.

His eyes widened, and he seemed to be speechless for the moment.

“Oh, right. Tony told me you were the last person here I had yet to meet. I just assumed…” You trailed off lamely, that odd sense of familiarity still lingering as you continued to look at his face.

He winced slightly before seeming to swallow whatever emotion was bothering him down, “Yeah, I’m Bucky. It’s nice to meet you Y/N.”

And when he held out his hand to shake yours, the sense of familiarity intensified ever so slightly. And you didn’t even wonder at the fact that his other arm seemed to not be an arm at all, but rather one made of a black metal.

You just stared up into his impossibly blue eyes, and felt for the first time that day a wave of peace wash over you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M SORRY THIS WAS SO FUCKING LONG. I just really didn’t want to end it without at least a lil bit of Bucky. And yes, if you’re wondering if I’m going somewhere with all these weird feelings she’s getting about everyone, you are correct! I am. I never write with anything less than deliberate word choices. Just hang in there....for god knows how long.


End file.
